April's Fool

Act One: Prank War

April Fool's Day was the bane of Sheriff John Stilinski's existence.

He didn't know what idiot had decided it would be a good idea to set aside one day a year for practical jokes, pranks, and hoaxes, but he thought that person should be strangled with their own whoopee cushion. It wasn't that the sheriff didn't have a sense of humor, because he did (in fact, he liked to consider himself quite the fun guy), but he had a problem with any kind of humor that hinged on humiliating other people, scaring the bejeebers out of them, creating a mess, or propagating falsehoods.

On average, he found most people forgot about or didn't bother with the "holiday" (if that was what one could call it), and he might have passed the day without any incident whatsoever. April 1st might have just been another typical day for the sheriff, just another twenty-four hours to check off his calendar at the end of the day, if he hadn't been blessed with Stiles as a son.

When people first celebrated April Fool's Day, they must have had Stiles in mind. His boy - the jokester, the trickster - thrived off any opportunity he had of making a fool of himself and others, and of supplanting authority. It wasn't unusual for Sheriff Stilinski to receive phone calls from Stiles' school - an angry principal or frenzied teacher, a harried secretary or irritated janitor - complaining that Stiles had: ripped the seat of Mr. Jorgen's pants by putting glue on his chair; poured itching powder in the mesh jerseys during Phys Ed.; caused an epidemic of projectile vomiting with his phony puke and realistic-looking pile of plastic excrement; set off a stink bomb in the library that made it impossible to even enter (the stench lingered in book pages for weeks); taped Out of Order signs to all the urinals in the boys' bathroom and greased the toilet seats; and sent Mr. Hunter into cardiac arrest with his fake blood and severed hand in Wood Working class.

Sheriff Stilinski had heard it all. How many hours had he spent trying to talk school officials down from their hysterical fits, claiming "he's just a kid," "it was a harmless prank," "he enjoys celebrating April Fool's day?" Negotiating Stiles' hyped up sentence down from three weeks suspension or a month's detention to a week or a day, promising to give his son a stern talking-to and suggesting the school allow Stiles to make it up to them by helping out in classrooms – banging chalk erasers or cleaning up litter – the way they used to when he was a kid.

And they would have their talks: Sheriff Stilinski scolding Stiles for his impish behavior. Stiles would nod his head solemnly and say he was sorry. He would promise to ease up on his pranking, and then he would offer the sheriff a Jelly Belly candy that tasted like rotten eggs or canned dog food. Being Stiles' father did not exclude the sheriff from Stiles' April Fool's pranks. Quite the opposite. He was Stiles' first victim every April 1st morning. Loosening the lid on the salt and pepper shakers, so that when he went to add a dash of each to his scrambled eggs, a mountain would topple out. Using a second universal remote to change the channels while he was trying to watch the news. Changing the ringtone on the sheriff's cell phone to something sexual and inappropriate - trying explaining that to the visiting District Attorney! - or modifying the language settings on his computer to Chinese or Greek. Hiding rubber snakes in the sheriff's bed or a severed head in the fridge.

John wished that once, just once, Stiles would forget about April Fool's Day.

Last year Sheriff Stilinski had forgotten. He had woken up before his alarm, only to turn over and see that his clock read 9:00, and he was already an hour late for work. He had rushed through his morning routine, nicking himself while shaving, and accidentally pouring lukewarm coffee down the front of his clean shirt. Stiles had entered the kitchen in his pyjamas, laughed, grabbed the box of Cheerios, and good-naturedly declared "April Fool's!" He had (mischievously, albeit with an undeniable quality of love) set his father's alarm clock ahead two hours. Not only was the sheriff not late; he could have slept longer.

This year Sheriff Stilinski was determined to be prepared. The night before, he made sure Stiles was in bed and asleep before he went to bed himself. He set the alarm on his phone, and kept his cell hidden under his pillow, so Stiles wouldn't be able to mess with it or try an encore of last year's prank. He woke up early that morning, and carefully inspected everything before he used it – toilet seat (Stiles wasn't too old or too mature to go for the classic saran wrap trick), toothpaste, mouthwash, shaving cream. He sniffed and tasted the sugar before he dumped it into his coffee. He examined his clothes for itching powder, checked that the pepper spray in his gun belt was, in fact, still pepper spray. (There had been one horrible year when Stiles had switched out his mace with silly string. He had promised never to touch or meddle with his father's gun belt again, and while the sheriff wanted to believe him, he wasn't quite sure he could. With Stiles, you never knew. Not that he thought his son would lie to him – especially not after seeing the way his father had reacted to the fact that a) he had messed with his father's police equipment, b) tampered with something that could have led to a dangerous situation, and c) been that close to the sheriff's gun, despite all the gun-safety rules John had been drilling through Stiles' head since he was a child – but because his son was by nature impulsive and attracted to trouble.)

Sheriff Stilinski made it through his morning routine – shower, shave, dress, breakfast – without incident, and he was growing increasingly suspicious. As he sipped his coffee dubiously, waiting at any moment for it to explode in his face, or something equally dramatic and ridiculous, Stiles came into the kitchen. The boy yawned and scratched at his belly button through his thin t-shirt. "Morning," he yawned again.

"Morning." Stiles rummaged through the cupboards for something to eat, finally deciding on a half-eaten pack of frosted donuts on the counter, and grabbed the jug of milk from the refrigerator. Sheriff Stilinski followed him with his eyes.

"What?"

"What do you mean, 'what'?"

"Why are you giving me the creepy cop stare? I feel like you're trying to catch me shoplifting or something."

Sheriff Stilinski raised an eyebrow. Could it be? Had Stiles actually forgotten what today was? "Don't you have something you'd like to say to me this morning? Something you'd like to do?"

"Uh, no?"

"Hm." Sheriff Stilinski didn't let himself hope. He watched as Stiles crammed two donuts into his mouth, the powdered sugar gathering at the corners of his lips, and attempted to chug half a liter of dairy before he'd completely swallowed. John shook his head. "That isn't much of a breakfast."

"Why not?" Stiles' mumbled. Bits of dough spitting out. "It's grain, right? And dairy. That's, like, two food groups right there."

The sheriff sighed. "If your mother was here, she'd skin me alive for letting you eat like that."

Stiles smiled. "She always said I take after you."

"God forbid." Sheriff Stilinski glanced down at his watch. "I have to get going. I'm not sure when I'll be home tonight. Probably late. I want you in this house by dark. Lock all the doors and remember to set the alarm. With the recent string of robberies in town, I want you to be careful."

"Yes, sir!" Stiles saluted with his index and middle finger.

"Don't be sarcastic with me. I mean it, Stiles. Don't forget to set the alarm tonight."

"I won't. Don't worry so much."

"I'm supposed to worry. I'm your father." Stiles trailed his father to the front door at a safe distance. The sheriff opened it and stepped out. The day was sunny and bright. The air was a little cool, but fresh and crisp. A perfect spring morning. Across the street, Mrs. Henderson was walking her poodle. She looked back over her shoulder curiously, then herded her yapping dog more quickly down the street. Parked in the driveway was Sheriff Stilinski's police cruiser. His work vehicle was covered in post-it notes! Hot pink, lemon yellow, neon green, cobalt blue, and lilac purple. Not an inch of the car was bare. Even the tire rims were covered! "Damn it, Stiles!"

"April Fool's!" Stiles was doubled over just inside the door, his hands on his knees, laughing so hard at the expression on his father's face his stomach hurt.

"Get out here and help me clean this up!"

"Sorry, Dad. Gotta get ready for school or I'm going to be late." Stiles raced up the stairs and into the bathroom, slamming the door shut safely behind him.

Sheriff Stilinski walked around his car. Stiles had been extremely thorough. When had he found the time to do this? He must have had help, an accomplice; there was no way he did this alone. Scott McCall. Definitely Scott. He was usually Stiles' partner-in-crime. He'd have to give Melissa a call later and see if she had been on the receiving end of any of the boys' little jokes.

He peeled a few notes off the rear window, creating a small space he could see through, and climbed into the driver's seat. He rolled down his window and the passenger's. They wouldn't go down easily, the notes getting tangled, but it would do. He turned on the windshield wipers. They swept back and forth rapidly, thwack, thwack, thwack, ripping off several notes each time they moved up. It was good enough. He was already running late. He'd order a deputy to clean off the rest once he arrived at the station – once his colleagues got over their initial fits of laughter.

Sheriff Stilinski backed onto the street carefully. The post-it notes fluttered in the breeze as he accelerated. A pink note unstuck from the hood and was lost to the wind. It drifted away and down, settling contentedly in the middle of the pavement. Sheriff Stilinski wished his son would start acting his age, wished he would take his position as the only child of the town sheriff seriously, and behave in a way people could admire and respect. Whether Stiles wanted them to or not, people looked at him closely and judged his behavior - and by his behavior they judged his father.

If Stiles had done the same prank to anyone else, the sheriff would have been wildly impressed. He would have laughed and been secretly proud. Instead, he was irritated and exasperated. Nothing he said made it into Stiles' thick head. The boy did whatever he wanted, without a clear understanding that his actions had consequences.

TEENWOLF

"How did your father take it?" Scott asked, holding one of the heavy school doors open for Stiles so he could enter ahead of him.

"He was mad. You should have seen his face. It was hilarious."

"What did he do?"

"He got in and drove off."

"He didn't even take off the post-its?"

"Nope. Here, look." Stiles pulled his cellphone from his pocket, and showed Scott a video he had shot from an upstairs window. The brightly colored cruiser crawled down the street like a gaudy misplaced Easter float. Scott laughed.

"That's great. And he wasn't expecting it?"

"He was expecting me to do something, but pranking the cruiser came as a total shock." His father wasn't the type of person who was easily surprised, and Stiles felt proud that he had been able to pull one over on his father. He had put a lot of thought into his jokes this year; he had been looking forward to April Fool's Day for weeks. He was elated the prank on his father had gone so wonderfully.

As Stiles spun the dial combination to his locker, he could feel Scott excitedly watching him. His friend was rocking back and forth on his heels, chattering aimlessly about nothing. Suspicious. Stiles paused. "You know, Scott buddy, I don't think I actually need anything in here."

"What about your Physics textbook? You need that, don't you? We have it second period."

"I'll get it later. In-between periods."

"You won't have time."

"I can wait."

"Here, I'll do it!" Scott snatched the lock out of Stiles' hands. He deftly inserted Stiles' combination, stepped aside, and opened the door. As he did, a pile of rubber spiders spilled to the floor. Scott smiled and looked up smugly.

"Lame. But it does concern me how well you know my combination."

Scott pouted his disappointment. "The combination's your birthday. Not exactly hard to guess."

Stiles reached inside, avoiding the rubbery legs, and grabbed his textbook. "You were right. I do need this." He slammed his locker shut and headed for class. Scott moped beside him.

"Come on. Weren't you shocked even a little?"

"By fake spiders? No. You're going to have to do better than that."

Lydia Martin and Allison Argent were approaching from the opposite direction, headed – as they were – for American Literature class. Perfect, Stiles thought. He reached into his pocket and slightly slowed his pace. Wait for it, wait for it. The right moment. He had to time this correctly. Scott (just as Stiles knew he would) stepped in from of him quickly, and gentlemanly opened the classroom door for the girls. At the same moment, Stiles pretended to smack into the door, using his foot to create the proper sound effect. "Oh God!"

Scott, temporarily distracted from making lovey-dovey eyes at Allison, whirled around. "Oh my God, Sty! Dude, I am so sorry. You're really bleeding." Stiles cupped his hands around his nose, using this thumb to squeeze the concealed packet. Fake blood oozed between his fingers and down his hands. He howled in pain and hammed it up. Allison blanched at the sight of his 'blood,' and Scott continued to apologise profusely. "Aw man, are you alright? I'm sorry. It was an accident. I didn't realize you were that close."

"Here, let me see," Lydia spoke calmly, reaching her dainty hands to his face.

Stiles dropped his hands, revealing his unbroken and blood-free nose. He smirked. "April Fool's!"

Lydia and Allison frowned. "That wasn't funny, Stiles."

"Come on. It was a little bit funny." He looked to Scott for support. Scott agreed readily, relieved he hadn't broken his best friend's nose. He fist-bumped his acknowledgement of Stiles' superiority.

"Definitely better than the fake spiders."

They took their seats near each other, a tiny cluster. As they waited for class to start, they discussed April Fool's Day. "I think it's juvenile," Lydia supplied, picking at a fleck of nail polish on her right hand.

"I don't mind a good prank now and again," Allison admitted, "but I think it's silly to have an entire day set aside for them." She glared at Stiles. "And I don't think pretending you're hurt is very funny."

"What? That was classic." Stiles turned in his seat so he could high-five Scott.

"It was immature. You do those kinds of things, and someday no one's going to believe it when you're really hurt." Allison felt very strongly about the point. Hadn't Stiles ever heard the story of the boy who cried wolf? Lydia pointed a manicured finger at Allison appreciatively and nodded: "She's right."

Scott was rummaging through his bag, pulling out papers and textbooks. Everything but what he was obviously hunting for. "Dang, I forgot a pen. Does anyone have one I could borrow?"

"Sure, bud. Here ya go."

"Thanks." Scott accepted the fancy ballpoint pen Stiles offered him. "Hey, this is nice." He clicked the top of it. A startling jolt of electricity shocked his hand and traveled up his arm. He immediately dropped the pen. Stiles laughed, and even the girls couldn't suppress a small chuckle.

"I can't believe you fell for that! You're so gullible!" Was he? Scott liked to think he wasn't, but maybe he was. Stiles had already tricked him twice in the span of five minutes. He was going to have to step up his game if he wanted to get him back.

And so the prank war began. The day unfolded in a series of practical jokes between the two friends: before the end of first period, Scott stuck a "Kick Me" sign to Stiles' back; in retaliation, Stiles glitter-bombed Scott with supplies from the art room before third; during lunch, Scott dropped a rubber fly into Stiles' fish chowder when he wasn't looking (Stiles scooped it out with his spoon and disgusted his friends by continuing to eat the soup anyways), and Stiles shook up a can of Pepsi before passing it to Scott; Scott wrote a love letter to Coach Finstock in Economics and signed it with Stiles' name. In study hall, before Scott was fully seated in the chair beside Allison, Stiles shoved a whoopee cushion under Scott's butt. The flatulence noise was so long, so loud, and so glorious, and both their cheeks so awkwardly and beautifully pink, Stiles dissolved into a fit of hysterics powerful enough to knock him backwards out of his chair. Beside him, Lydia cracked a smile.

Scott's revenge came at the end of the day, and it was brutal. Perturbed that Stiles had one-upped him again – and in front of his crush – Scott resorted to underhanded and merciless tactics. Nonchalantly he made it known to Stiles that he had overheard Lydia and Allison during recess: Lydia had called it quits with her most recent boyfriend and was back on the market. She had, and so Scott quoted, felt she couldn't in good conscience date a guy, when she knew she loved someone else. Someone she saw everyday, had been friends with since grade school. Someone she had been waiting on for months, if only he would find the courage to speak up.

Stiles inspected his friend's face. Usually he could read Scott like an open book, but not this time. He couldn't tell if Scott was kidding him or not, but he couldn't take any chances. This could be it: his moment. The fruition of his five year plan! He raced down the hallway to find Lydia, rounded the bend, and saw her sucking face – very publicly – with the latest flavor of the week: a guy on the lacrosse team who's IQ was lower than the lint in Stiles' bellybutton. He slumped back to Scott, hefting his bag higher on his shoulder, and chiding himself for being so naïve. He shouldn't have gotten his hopes up. He was smarter than that. "That was a dirty trick," he growled, seeing the self-satisfied look on Scott's face.

"Maybe, but I finally got you."

"Yeah, you did."

"C'mon. Don't be sour. It was a joke."

"Fine." The final bell rang, releasing them from secondary hell for the weekend. "What do you think? Arcade then pizza?"

Stiles' face was impassive, and Scott wondered if he had crossed a line. "Sure."

"My keys are in my backpack. Can you grab them for me? Front pocket." Stiles stood waiting, his back turned, as Scott dipped his hand into the indicated pocket, and his fingers brushed something hairy. "Ah!" He pulled his hand back out quickly, repulsed and horrified. Was Stiles carrying around a dead mouse? It felt like a dead mouse! Stiles laughed, extracted his keys from his jeans pocket, and twirled them on his finger. "Gotcha again! I am the prank master."

As they climbed into the Jeep, Scott and Stiles called a truce: no more pranks. Humiliating each other in school was embarrassing and hilarious; humiliating each other in public would have been downright cruel. At least, that was Scott's line of reasoning. Secretly he was terrified at the thought of Stiles duping him again. He wasn't sure his nerves could handle it.

At the arcade, a large luminous room that smelled of Cheetos, adolescent sweat, and frustration, the boys spent all their quarters trying to beat each other at skee-ball, Mortal Kombat, and racing simulators. After spending the last of their change on an old pinball machine, Scott gallantly not rubbing it in Stiles' face when he won by two games (okay, maybe there was some rubbing), they headed to a local pizzeria a block over. Gino, the owner, greeted them warmly, slapping Stiles on the back and saying, as he always did, "How is your papa? That man, he save my life!" Sheriff Stilinski hadn't really saved his life, but had arrested a perp who had made off with the cash in the till, but in Gino's eyes, they were the same thing. He was always glad to see Stiles come in.

They shared a large pepperoni pizza – graciously sold at the family discount – and a plate of spicy chicken wings. They chatted and discussed game strategies, until Scott couldn't take it any longer. "I'm sorry," Scott apologized, referring to the mean joke he had played on Stiles. He had been proud of himself at the time, but when he thought about it, he started to feel guilty. Stiles had brushed it off like it wasn't a big deal, but Scott knew it was. He hated feeling guilty, especially about hurting his friend; it left an icky feeling in the pit of his stomach that made it difficult to enjoy the pizza. "You really like Lydia, don't you?"

"Yeah," Stiles mumbled, his mouth stuffed with cheese. "I do."

"I'm sorry, man," Scott reiterated. He was a despicable human being. Sure Stiles had embarrassed him in front of Allison, but what Scott had done was savage. I just-"

Stiles held up his hand. "Let's just drop it, okay? It's fine."

"I know, but-"

"Look, it wasn't a big deal. It was funny. I didn't think you'd have the balls to try something like that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, so just chill out and eat. You know what?" Stiles held up a chicken wing. Its dark red sauce glistened in the florescent lighting. It was so spicy, he could practically feel the heat in his fingers. "I bet I could eat more of these than you without taking a drink."

"You're on."

After stuffing their faces and burning their tongues to near oblivion, they decided to call it a night, though the evening was still young. Their typical Friday guys'-night-out needed to end earlier than usual. Scott had other commitments: last week, he had been "volun-told" by his mother to house-sit for their neighbours, the elderly Millers. The Millers had lived on their street long before the McCalls had moved in, and had acted as a set of adoptive grandparents to Scott growing up. They were gone for the weekend – visiting their daughter and grandchildren in Palm Springs. Due to the recent break-ins in the area, they were anxious about leaving their house empty and unattended. They had offered to pay Scott to fed and walk their dog - a fearless Yorkshire terrier named Waffles - water their plants, and spend a couple nights in the house in the guest room. Then they could rest easy, knowing their house and precious canine were safe.

The Millers had a fully-stocked fridge, a 65 inch television, and a thousand channels – Scott didn't really need convincing. He loudly complained to his mother about being volunteered to house-sit, but he was beyond excited. A weekend alone! A taste of independence, of the good life! Forty-eight hours to himself. The Millers' one unfortunate rule was that he could not invite friends over. They trusted him enough to leave their home and beloved pet ("Mommy's baby!" Mrs. Miller exclaimed, planting kisses all over the yorkie's face before she left) in his care, and he intended to honour that trust. So while the only thing that would have made his weekend better was sharing it with Stiles, he knew he shouldn't. Even if the Millers never discovered he had broken their rules, he would know. His conscience was too acute. He couldn't do it.

Scott and Stiles parted shortly after 7pm. Stiles drove Scott home in the Jeep, so he could grab his stuff before walking two doors down to the Millers'. Melissa was climbing out of her vehicle, dressed in her scrubs, looking tired and exhausted. Scott took her purse from her, and she kissed his cheek. She waved at Stiles, "Hi Stiles. Coming in?" He was basically a permanent fixture in their house. A fact she had accepted a long time ago.

"Not tonight, Mrs. M. Did you have a good day?"

"It was...a day." Melissa McCall was another member of the Anti-April Fool's Day club. Each year people came into the hospital and wasted her time with their hoaxes and jokes, as if she had nothing better to do than indulge their jokester whims. Of course she had to wait on all of them, weeding out fact and fiction. On April 1st, the ER tended to be packed. Filled with practical jokers whose pranks had gone wrong: snake bites and chemical burns, allergic reactions and stings, gashes on hands and heads and buttocks needing fifteen stitches and a painkiller. Her personal favourite was the young man whose girlfriend had reflexively attacked him with a hot frying pan when he jumped out and frightened her.

Scott had played a tame joke on her this morning – fitting saran wrap tightly over the keyhole so she couldn't stick in her key to unlock the door. He knew better than to mess with his mother, especially on the days when she was tired and stressed. Instead he had focused his energy into helping Stiles with his elaborate prank on Sheriff Stilinski. It had taken them until 3am, waiting and waiting until the sheriff finally drifted off and they could start. But from what Stiles had said, it was totally worth it. Scott only wished he could have seen John's reaction firsthand.

Next year Stiles was talking about filling the sheriff's bedroom with balloons – a prank they had watched British Youtuber Joe Sugg pull on his roommate Caspar. That would require even more time and planning, but Scott was excited for it. He would never have the gumption to pull something like that on his own.

Stiles bid the McCalls goodnight and headed for home. The sun had already dipped over the horizon, and was casting its last rays into the sky in an awesome spectacle of pink, orange, and purple. Beautiful as the colours were, they brought a smile to Stiles face simply because they reminded him of his father's squad car.

Stiles parked his Jeep, unlocked and relocked the door behind him, threw his keys onto the counter, and washed down the pepperoni pizza from earlier with a Hot Pocket, a row of Oreos, and a glass of milk. He flopped down on the sofa and flipped lazily through the channels, looking for something decent to watch. Friday night viewing choices were slim pickings: action movies, sitcom reruns, reality shows about cops (no thank you, he got his fill of that everyday), and bad comedy shows. He settled on the last forty-five minutes of the "Mazerunner" movie, and watched three back-to-back marathon episodes of a far-fetched MTV series about angsty, supernatural teenagers.

The analog clock in the living room ticked, ticked, ticked away the minutes. Stiles was bored. It was a Friday night, and he was stuck home alone with nothing to do. Scott was busy, and while Stiles had plenty of other friends at school (okay, maybe not plenty, but he certainly had several…well, maybe only a few…all right, there weren't that many, but it was like he was a complete loner!), they weren't necessarily people he could call up and ask to come over. They were the kind of friends he rarely spoke to outside of school, or else hung out with only when hanging out with a large group. They weren't the kind of people he could ask to chill one-on-one, and he didn't want that anyway. He could count on his hand the number of people he actually enjoyed spending time with.

Stiles wondered what time his father would be home. The sheriff would probably be exhausted, but that was okay. They didn't have to do anything or talk. They could just sit on the couch together, eating Doritos and watching bad late night TV. Or maybe they could put in one of those Michael Keaton movies his father loved.

How strange that he could miss the man he lived with - especially when he'd seen him only that morning.

Stiles turned off the television, lumbered up to his room in the dark, and powered up his computer. He was too lazy to bother turning on any lights or do more than change into pyjamas. He sat slumped in his desk chair, the blue glow of his screen illuminating his face, as he scrolled listlessly through Facebook: photos recently uploaded of parties and #besties, news trends about celebs, sports, and politics, and things he didn't care about in the slightest. After Facebook, he apathetically checked Twitter and Instagram. Oh look, Lydia had posted a selfie with her boyfriend. And he was making a duck-face. Yuck. Exceedingly yuck.

Youtube offered more amusement, with its cute pet videos, elaborate hidden-camera pranks, and stupid antics. It was a good time-waster, sucking him in with its autoplay function and video recommendations. Stiles wasn't sure what time it was when his iPhone started playing its easily identifiable jingle. He paused his current video of James Corden's "Carpool Karaoke." The number on the call display was not familiar to him, but he answered. "Hello?"

Heavy breathing. "Do you like scary movies, Stiles?" a gravelly voice asked.

"Am I supposed to say 'yes'?"

"What's your favourite?"

"Is there where I say 'Halloween', or "Nightmare on Elm Street," and you tell me you want to rip out my guts like Freddy Krugger?"

"Don't be a smart ass. Everyone has a favourite."

"Action flicks are more my thing." Stiles clicked out of Youtube and typed away. Clack, clack, clack. "And I'm always a smart-ass. It's part of my charm."

"How do you feel about games? Want to play a game?"

"Not really. Games are lame."

"Where I am right now?"

"Let me guess: you can see me, and you're probably in the house."

"Why don't you come see?"

Stiles sighed. "Scott, this is boring. And unoriginal. I'm disappointed in you."

"Who's Scott?"

"I know it's you, idiot."

"Aw. How did you know it was me?" The caller returned to his normal octave. Stiles could practically hear him pouting through the phone.

Stiles rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "For starters, I Googled the phone number, and it's listed as the Millers. More importantly, you suck at disguising your voice. We're going to have to work on that."

"I thought my Ghostface impression was pretty good."

"You sounded more like a chain-smoking Cookie Monster. How's the house-sitting going?"

"It's awesome. They have hundreds of movie channels, surround-sound, a dozen flavors of ice-cream in their freezer, and they installed a Jacuzzi a couple weeks ago. I may never leave!"

"You never know, maybe the Millers will adopt you. I'm sure they wouldn't… ..."

"…wouldn't what?"

"Wait." Stiles strained his ears; he thought he had heard noises downstairs. Not loud sounds, subtle but abnormal. Not the familiar creaks and groans he was accustomed to - the fridge kicking into high gear or a raccoon rummaging in the garbage bins on the back porch. He had lived in this house his entire life; he knew every nook and cranny. He knew intimately every sound: the breathing and sighing of the walls at night, the rasping of the plumbing, the settling of the floorboards as the house cooled.

"What is it?"

"Shh." There it was again. A step on the stairs, followed by another. Was his father home? Stiles glanced out the window. His Jeep was parked alone in the driveway. Up and down the street was dead. No cars. No movement. The street lamp flickered once. Stiles lowered his voice. "I think there's someone in the house." A whispered voice echoed. Not his own. Someone was here. He was sure of it now.

"Stiles, that isn't funny."

Stiles' heart pounded in his ears. Had he set the alarm? He couldn't remember. What should he do? He felt frozen in place. Should he try climbing out the window? Hide in his closet? Crawl under the bed? Maybe his father had gotten a ride home from work – the cruiser still covered in post-its and useless in the dark – or maybe it was one of his deputies. Maybe Sheriff Stilinski had given someone his keys and asked that person to check in on Stiles. Wait, not person - people, plural.

A hushed voice – less skilled in the art of whispering – replied to the first.

Stiles knew better than to call out. In scary movies, asking "Who's there?" was like signing your own death certificate. He needed a plan; he needed to think. Scott was on the line, growing increasingly frantic. He didn't believe Stiles – didn't want to believe Stiles.

"Look, man, I know I crossed the line with the Lydia joke, but this isn't funny. Prank calls are one thing, but this...this is a whole different category. So just cut it out. You're not fooling me."

Stiles didn't have time to convince Scott. He needed to move. He needed to free up the phone line. "Scott, I'm not joking, okay?"

"Stiles, I-"

"I have to hang up."

"Don't!"

"Call my dad."

Click! "Stiles!" Scott stared at the lifeless phone in his hand. The disconnected line screeched at him to hang up. Stiles was taking the joke too far this time. It was too much. Bloody noses and severed body parts were one thing, but this... This was a hell of a way to try to get back at him.

Had Stiles sounded scared? Or was he imagining that? Maybe Stiles was a better actor than he gave him credit for. Or maybe Scott was projecting his own emotions into Stiles' voice. Either way, this had to be a prank. Of course, it was a prank. It wasn't real, couldn't be real. Could it? Scott didn't know what to do. He didn't want to be made a fool of again. Stiles could be purposefully putting him in a position where he'd be forced to humiliate himself – call 911 and then have to embarrassedly explain to the officers it had been a joke all along. Sometimes Stiles just didn't know when to stop.

Then again, could he afford to take that risk? Brush it off as nothing more than a prank when his friend was in real trouble. "Call my dad" - that was the last thing Stiles said. Maybe Stiles would pull a prank like this on Scott, but would he pull the same stunt on his father?

Scott made a decision, and dialled.